This Strange Hell

by C. J. Sutton

  His cards read fourteen. Wolfgang smiled. They all did. This was his game, his rules, and he couldn’t pussy out by accepting such a poor hand. He didn’t raise. Siphon’s men watched on, wanting the man to squirm, wanting him to fail, wanting him to stumble on his own. He patted the table.

  Wolfgang slid the card over, face down, to build the suspense. The man didn’t care about the money. He didn’t care about the slap. It was the potential of what would follow that kept his hand trembling beneath the table. Here were violent men. Give them a sniff, and it may not end with a slap.

  “Fucking shit,” said Harvard, seeing the man’s five of clubs give him a nineteen total. Wolfgang’s disappointment quickly dissipated as he remembered Harvard almost landed a thick wad of spit on his face. He rose, the chair falling backwards and clattering against the floor.

  “Alright, go easy, huh? Go easy,” said Harvard. Each word caused Wolfgang’s grin to widen. He clenched his fist, bones cracking in delight, and then opened. The lightbulb above dangled freely, moved by the flies searching for escape. Killer raised his head, ready to enjoy the show.

  Wolfgang drew his arm back dramatically. A free hit, all his Christmas presents opened at once. The force was unlike anything the man had seen. The open hand came down like a slammed car door, connecting on cheekbone and ringing like a snapped belt. Harvard’s head flicked sideways, the skin instantly purple. Liquid welled in his eyes, the wince causing it to cluster. The man sipped his water to stop his mouth moving. Wolfgang returned to his seat, belching in delight. He told the man to suck him off and curled an arm around the winnings, dragging notes towards him.

  “I like this game,” he said. “Shots for you, Harvard!”

  Harvard went to swig, his face a sickly shade of crimson, but the man stopped him.

  “No, you lift it away from your mouth, so we can see the stream. Just like the piss of a racehorse,” said the man, and watched as Harvard gulped steady flows of vodka. He coughed and spluttered, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.

  “It’s a drink, not a cock, don’t swallow so hard,” said Wolfgang, and he was all in now, passing the deck to Brick, who won the next hand. A thousand dollars, and Harvard once again finished last, this time without busting. But the men were focused on the game and sucked from their bottles like babies from the teat. Their belts were unbuckled, their hands holding notes, and their tongues loosened. The game absorbed everyone but the man, for he was the only one remembering Siphon’s orders and the rules to avoid wrath.

  “Which one do you reckon he’ll pick?” said Harvard, swaying.

  “I hope it’s Kane, that prick always gives me the eye,” replied Brick, imitating the gesture. “Hope we’re not hanging him though, that fuckin’ rope burned my hands half off and my shoulder is killing me.”

  “Who shot you?” asked the man.

  “Fucked if I know, do you think I’d be sitting here if I knew? Just grazed me though.”

  “I dunno,” said the man, winning a hand and watching Brick reach the end of his bottle. No slap. “It just seems funny that Siphon will kill the Pritchard boys over a break-in but doesn’t even bat an eyelid at his boy being shot at. I mean, what’s worse?”

  Brick nodded, dribbling vodka, and closed one eye to look at his card. He tossed the empty bottle, which smashed against the barn wall and shattered one metre from Killer. The dog didn’t flinch.

  “Told me to grow up,” muttered Brick. He won the hand, slapped an annoyed Harvard and watched as the alien-fearing announcer fell off his chair. The men laughed hard, so the man joined them. Brick lifted another full vodka bottle out of an old beer chiller full of ice and cracked the lid.

  “Could’ve shot any one of us,” said the man. “I’m not sure the fear tactics are working if they can still pull out a rifle and fire. The shooter didn’t aim for your head, just your shoulder. Sounds like intimidation.”

  “Fuck them,” said Wolfgang. “They’re only good for money.”

  “You need them, don’t you?”

  “The fuck you on about, Greg?”

  “I mean all this gambling and drug selling is high risk, just like this game here,” he said, waving his hand over the pot. “But rent from honest workers is coin that can be relied on, well…on the provision that you keep them afraid and alive.”

  Harvard burped, swallowed vomit and spoke, his breath a tell-tale sign.

  “They’re not afraid, they’re just stupid,” he said, finally winning a hand. “They outnumber us, but they stay quiet because they think they’ve got something to lose.”

  “What are they losing?” asked the man, proposing a lower pot to keep this game rolling.

  “That’s the funny part. They’ve already lost it. Family, school, authority. They think we can still take something, but all that is left is their lives. The fuckers barely even speak to each other anymore. That’s why the Pritchard boys are next.”

  “But if you kill them all,” he said, staring into Harvard’s misty eyes and wondering if the announcer was still listening, “who is left to intimidate? Eventually they’ll realise you can feel fear, just like everyone else.”

  “You’ve got a big mouth,” said Brick. “Don’t sound much like a shearer. The fuck happened to your hands anyway?”

  The man glanced at his own hands, bandages still wrapped around the skin that was torn to shreds by splintered wood, blood fresh from the slap. He realised how pointless this had been. These men didn’t care for the look of your hands, only the colour of your heart.

  “Just some fixing up at that rusty Randall joint. There’s shit everywhere.”

  Brick was annoying Wolfgang, who wanted his new favourite card game to continue. The man noticed Wolfgang was drinking sparingly, sly as a fox. With elbows on the green table he studied his competitors, but Brick was flailing his arms around and Harvard analysed the room like a hawk expecting a mouse to scurry out at any moment.

  “Aliens?” mocked the man.

  “You make fun, Greg. But more goes on in this world than you think.”

  As Wolfgang dealt the cards he spoke.

  “Harvard here has a PHD, would you fucking believe it? Philosophy. What a useless waste of your best years.”

  Harvard rose, knocking the table and spilling the man’s fake vodka. He watched in dismay as the water-filled bottle emptied onto the barn floor. Brick handed him another, and as he cracked the lid the powerful smell cited danger.

  “Don’t fucking talk about my years. I educated myself. You spent your young years ripping off gangsters and fucking anything that walked. He’s got that hepatitis,” said Harvard, smiling now as he pointed at Wolfgang. They were all tense and drunk. Siphon had them wound up and ready to explode.

  “Siphon makes him wear a dinger when he fucks,” said Harvard, and Brick began laughing, whacking the table with force and spilling more vodka.

  “One more word outta you and I’ll set Killer free,” said Wolfgang. “Killer hates Harvard. Bites him every other day. The only living creature Killer loves chasing more than Harvard is a live chicken, and guess what? We’re all out of live chickens.”

  “He doesn’t bite you because he doesn’t want that hepatitis.”

  Harvard sat on his deck chair with a thud. And then he shot up.

  “Hear that?” he said. But nobody did, for there was no sound. The man took a sip from the vodka whenever a glance moved his way, but they were more focused on the money in their pockets.

  “I’m curious,” said the man, trying to bring them back to a rational discussion as Brick dealt. “How did it all start? Why are you here?”

  “I think the real question we’re wondering, Greg, is why are you here?”

  Wolfgang’s words sobered them up. Harvard’s anxiety, Brick’s aggression and Wolfgang’s suspicion entered a blender, and now the game officially stopped. Wolfgang pulled out a pistol and titled it at the man sideways.

  “How about the truth, because I don’t trust you as far as I c
ould throw you. Comin’ in here trying to bleed us dry with your card games. You know what? I think it was you who freed that bitch. I don’t care if you broke in here or told others to do it. Shit changed as soon as you rocked up out of thin fucking air.”

  The man swigged, deeply this time, now sure that Wolfgang was the top dog when the top dogs were out of town. He’d learned more from this game of cards than he had ever hoped. But there was one trick left. The man stood up, smashed the vodka bottle on the side of the table and held out the jagged edge to Wolfgang.

  “Fucking shoot me then, go on. You think I’m scared of you? This game gets old, Wolfgang. I’m here to make coin, and now you’re worried that I might be better at it than you? Well yeah, I probably am better than you. But I’m sitting here trying to play a fucking civilised game and you’re pointing that gun at me like you’re the leader. So come on big man. When Siphon walks back through that door, point the gun at him and see where that gets you.”

  Brick and Harvard were solid rock in a heavy blizzard. They watched the gun, unsure of the best outcome. Wolfgang smirked, holstered his weapon and picked up the deck of cards.

  “Better than me, huh? Let’s see.”

  Brick totalled eighteen. Harvard nineteen. The man looked to his cards: twelve. He tapped the table, receiving an eight of clubs. A twenty total. He was about to win two thousand dollars. Wolfgang revealed his cards. Sixteen. The man hoped it would end there. But it didn’t. Wolfgang tapped the table, hard, and received a queen of clubs. Bust. And he turned to the man, challenging him to commit the act. Brick and Harvard, despite their heads swaying, watched intently.

  “C’mon then, Greg, hit me.”

  The man stood, wiping the blood on his jeans. His heart rate was jacked. He glared at the bookie, but with the added alcohol the puckered face changed into one more sinister. The night at Barron Tower replaced the barn. As vivid as a REM-state dream. The man felt the rage pulsating beneath his skin, fluttering like a caffeinated bug. The familiar face thinned, and the hate overflowed. The man drew his burning hand back and released. But in his hate, he forgot to open his hand. The fist jackhammered Wolfgang above his eye and cut a slit above the eyebrow. A crimson waterfall leaked onto the table, wetting the cards and money. The present scene returned as though pause ceased. Wolfgang’s eye blinked rapidly beneath the wound. And then he rose. Without a word he grabbed the man by the throat and dragged him along the wooden flooring, boots scraping on wood. Brick and Harvard remained seated, turning their heads to watch as the two men reached a glass box behind a bale of hay.

  “C’mon Wolfgang, c’mon mate,” said the man, unable to break free of the grasp. Pinned against the fraying hay, he watched as Wolfgang snapped open the glass box and withdrew a brown snake. Clasping its head, he brought the creature to within an inch of the man’s throat.

  “I wouldn’t move, if I were you,” said Wolfgang, panting, bleeding, sweating. “This is the Eastern Brown Snake. It’s one of the most venomous snakes in the world. The venom of this little cunt will cause you to literally shit yourself, but that’s not the worst part. I’ve seen grown men paralysed. Some have had heart attacks, died before my very fucking eyes.”

  Wolfgang was squeezing the snake’s head so hard that the man expected it to pop. But he was more concerned with the result should the bookie let it go, for its direct escape route was through the man’s throat. The snake’s eyes sensed death, whether for itself or its audience the man could not know. A wet substance trickled from its slit of a mouth.

  “Alcohol just got to me,” said the man, trying to force his head further into the hay.

  The snake was pushed forward. The man closed his eyes. He heard a crunch as something warm drenched his throat, a trickle moving downward. And then he was lifted to his feet.

  “Try that shit again, and I won’t kill the snake,” said Wolfgang. The creature now had no head, just a limp limbless body dangling in the barn heat. Blood covered Wolfgang’s hand, the man’s throat and both their clothes. Moments later, they were once again seated at the table, dealing again.

  Brick struggled to remain upright, such was the high volume of alcohol he had consumed. As he was deciding on a move he fell backwards off his chair and passed out on the barn floor. Harvard, unable to remain seated any longer, began checking behind hay bales and within the constructed jail cells for watchers to their mayhem. He soon found a spot heavily padded with hay and crouched down for a rest. He was asleep in thirty seconds. The man continued playing with Wolfgang and could feel his control slipping as the potent alcohol impaired his senses. Wolfgang was a bottomless pit who could absorb liquid and piss it out minutes later. The only sound was snoring, the only smell urine; the sleepers no longer bothered to exit the barn for relief any more. It leaked freely from their jeans.

  “No hard feelings about before,” said the bookie, losing the round and twitching his nose. The man took it as a sign that finally the alcohol was working.

  “All good Wolf, I’m on your side remember.”

  Wolfgang nodded, his eyes drooping. He folded his thick arms on the table and nestled his head within. The patch of hair on his otherwise bald head appeared to be static, a television screen without a channel. But the man shook his head and knew a drunk state when he felt one. He lifted off the chair, which stuck to his soaked-through t-shirt, and tried to shake warmth into his limbs. With Wolfgang’s pistol on the table, the man found himself pondering the outcome of an end to the lives of the three snoring before him. Place the gun in Wolfgang’s hand to shoot himself, and then aim it to kill the others. All evidence pointed at the bookie. But even intoxicated, he couldn’t do it. As he stared at the gun, which appeared to be dancing on the table, Brick spewed out a fountain of moss-green vomit while asleep on his back. It shot out and dribbled out of him like a volcano that hadn’t erupted for a century. The substance poured down his chin and cheeks, splattered onto his black singlet top and covered his nose. And then he started choking.

  Brick’s chest heaved, but the man didn’t wake. Vomit was sucked in and spat out again, but such was the volume that Brick couldn’t clear his airways. His face reddened, then shifted to a shade of purple, followed by blue. The man’s head snapped to Harvard and Wolfgang, but they slept as though heavily sedated. Brick’s entire body convulsed, kicked, and shook for air. All the man could do was watch. This powerful heavy, a pawn in Siphon’s operation, had killed a boy through removal of air. Now, karma was paying a swift visit. The body gave one final jolt of life, and then Brick breathed no more.

  A knock on the barn door woke the man as he gasped for air. He clasped at his throat as though he was the one to undergo a choking fit. Wolfgang and Harvard woke also, and their eyes watched the door intently as it opened. Siphon and Hayes entered, talking amongst themselves and relaying a successful deal. And then they stopped. First it was the overbearing smell of piss and vomit. Next, the mess of money and broken furniture. Finally, after scowling Wolfgang, Siphon’s haunting gaze rested on Brick. But he didn’t hurry. He didn’t fret. Siphon walked over to his dead comrade, kicked him in the ribs and sighed.

  “I leave you for two fucking hours and someone dies,” he said, walking up to Harvard and grabbing the collar on his flannelette shirt. “And you’re fucking drunk off your arse. We had work to do tonight.”

  Hayes leaned over to get a better look at Brick, sticking out his bottom lip as he felt for a pulse. Siphon turned to Wolfgang.

  “Get up, right now. You too, Greg. I’m not fucking asking!”

  His voice boomed throughout the barn and the man feared for his life. With a heavy head still affected, he walked over to Siphon waiting for a bullet.

  “You two bastards are going to dump Brick in the pond, you got that?”

  “He’s fucking heavy,” said Wolfgang, his eyes bloodshot and voice croaky; still drunk with a welcome mat out for the hangover.

  “Bad luck. Dump him and then go home. I don’t want to see either of you until tomorrow.�
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  “What about tonight?” asked Hayes, kicking away the shards of glass that surrounded Killer.

  “They’re all shitting themselves. The Pritchard boys are probably committing suicide together as we speak. Let them sleep not knowing if we’re coming.”

  Siphon’s words were final. Hayes unclipped Killer and they left the barn together. Harvard went to follow them.

  “I don’t think so,” said Siphon, this time snatching at his shoulder.

  “You’re cleaning up this mess. Fucking piss and spew everywhere. Disgusting,” he continued, walking up the stairs. “When I come out of this office I want Brick gone, no mess, and all of you out of this barn. If anyone is left, you’ll be joining Brick at the bottom of the pond.”

  They dragged Brick through the thick grass. Neither person spoke. The man did not feel sick. He did not cringe at the sight of the dead body, or struggle with its stench. This was his life now, and better this man be dead than he. Wolfgang avoided eye contact. When they reached the pond, a small wooden pier of three metres jutted out from the ground. As they walked the plank with Brick between them, the old wood creaked and threatened to give way. Wolfgang stopped to vomit into the water.

  “You right?” asked the man.

  “Not every day you see a mate dead. Watch cattle being slaughtered or pricks being pummelled weekly. But this, this isn’t easy to take.”

  They reached the end of the pier, the water calm and inviting. Leaves cruised on the surface, ships with no destination, not bound by time or responsibility to the shore.

  “You wanna say anything?”

  “Fuck that,” said Wolfgang, strapping bricks to Brick. A trick well used. He then helped the man toss Brick’s heavy frame into the pond. They watched the black mass sink deeper and deeper, the moon illuminating the descent for the men to see. After a time, nothing but the ripples of insect disturbance graced the surface. Wolfgang wiped his mouth with his white t-shirt, flicked a coin into the pond and walked off into the night. The man didn’t follow. He didn’t want to. No death in Sulley Ridge was treated with respect. His final thought as he entered the woods leading to his new home was that the people in Melbourne died horrific deaths, burned and broken and bleeding like a scene from hell; but they were honoured by surviving loved ones, their names still flashed upon the bottom of the screen each day, a vigil erected to respect the fallen.